


More Like A Monster

by liketolaugh



Series: Corvid Creations [4]
Category: Fullmetal Alchemist: Brotherhood & Manga, Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: Alchemist Sans, Crossovers & Fandom Fusions, Gen, Ishbalan Character(s) | Ishvalan Character(s), Politics and Dinner
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-15
Updated: 2018-10-15
Packaged: 2019-08-02 12:10:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,819
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16304960
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/liketolaugh/pseuds/liketolaugh
Summary: When Mustang's subordinate, Major Sans Serif Font, reveals himself as a monster to save Hughes' life, Mustang is faced with what is in equal parts an opportunity and a risk - a chance to recruit the monsters before the rest of the military can. Luckily, he's good at that sort of thing, even with a few... complicating factors. (It always seemed to circle back to Ishval.)





	More Like A Monster

Despite the lack of anything to see, Mustang could not take his eyes off the back of Sans’ head. Hood. Whatever. Tension wavered up and down Mustang’s body, a deep and forbidding frown pulling at the corners of his mouth.

It was difficult to comprehend that his subordinate of four years, one of his trusted inner circle and the apprentice of _Major Armstrong,_ of all people, had been lying to him for all that time. For someone like Mustang, who trusted his people unconditionally and was, generally, trusted in return, it was no insignificant blow.

On the other hand- Sans had been there for Hughes when no one else had, protecting him from what otherwise might have been certain death. That, at least, guaranteed that Mustang had to hear Sans out – not just for the man’s loyalty so far, but for Maes. For Gracia and Elysia.

That wasn’t even beginning to get into the _nature_ of the lies. The story Sans had told him- well, the wistful look on his face whenever he looked at the sky in some ways spoke for itself, but it was rattling. And then there was his _face._

Monster. The word meant something very different to Sans than to Mustang, it seemed.

Sans had always been strange – most of his face hidden by a medical mask and sunglasses, hood up whenever possible, and curiously evasive about his reasons for joining the military – but, were it not for the seriousness of the circumstances under which Sans’ true nature was revealed, Mustang almost would have thought this a prank.

It kind of felt like one anyway. The Bone Alchemist, a skeleton. Ha ha.

The universe was justifying Sans’ bone puns.

Mustang shook himself, refocusing on the man ahead. Sans’ deception, the existence of monsters, the intel gathered by Maes Hughes – these concerns could, for now, wait. Until then, he had a matter of diplomacy to handle.

They reached Sans’ home in heavy silence and Sans paused with his gloved hand on the doorknob, and then turned to Mustang. His cheeks – cheekbones – pulled into a hint of a grin.

“Be nice, won’t ya, Colonel?”

Mustang raised his eyebrows at Sans’ casual words, but before he could retort, Sans turned the knob and stepped through the door. Mustang followed in short order, shutting the door behind him and pausing just inside the doorway.

Sans’ home was neater than Mustang had expected, and cozy, though dark with drawn curtains. The smell of cooking food drifted in from another room, and a stairwell on one side led up out of sight, lined with a simple banister. A table was arranged alongside some chairs not far away, and couches on the other side of the room.

The reasons for the drawn curtains soon became clear; Sans started to undo his uncharacteristically elaborate disguise, and despite himself, Mustang watched, fascinated, as Sans pulled off layers of deception like a rather loosely fitted snakeskin.

First came the hood, pushed off to fall around his neck. Then the sunglasses, folded up and put aside, revealing hollow sockets lit from within. The medical mask, exposing a fraction of a nose and a particularly toothy grin. The wig, dark and neat, Sans pulled off more carefully and set down on the entryway table. Finally, he pulled off his gloves, revealing carefully articulated fingerbones. When all that was done, Sans turned to Mustang and gave him a toothy, unreadable grin, a skeleton with moving parts.

It took serious effort for Mustang to keep his expression unfazed. It was only the second time he had seen Sans without his disguise, and the net effect of Sans’ undecorated skull was unnerving, a veil of death over a being Mustang had known for years now. The inconsistencies, where the bones gave way to expressions or the edges smoothed over, only worsened the matter.

But this was Sans, who had a firm hand when he needed to and not one second sooner, and who was never seen working but always handed it in on time, and matched Hughes story for story when the mood struck him. Major Sans Serif Font, one of _Mustang’s,_ come hell or high water.

And then Mustang had no more time to think about that, because Sans turned his alien gaze away and called out, “hey, bro, i’m home!”

There was a clatter from the next room over, and then the sound of rapid, eager footsteps. A moment later, another skeleton emerged, an obvious and identifiable eager beam across his osseous face. His face was shaped differently from Sans’, Mustang noted dispassionately, taller and thinner and sharper, and his eyes appeared more expression but lacked the gleam-lit quality Mustang’s subordinate’s had.

“SANS!” the new skeleton greeted enthusiastically, easily as loud as Major Armstrong. Mustang had a sudden insight as to how the Major and Sans managed to get along so well. “WELCOME HOME, MY LAZY BROTHER! WHO IS THIS YOU’VE BROUGHT?”

“it’s mustang, pap, you remember?”

“OH YES!” Papyrus turned to Mustang and grinned, and despite the mask of death that made up his face, it was almost blinding. “WELCOME, COLONEL HUMAN! THANK YOU FOR LOOKING AFTER MY SILLY BROTHER! I AM THE GREAT PAPYRUS, ACCOMPANYING SANS TO THIS EXTREMELY LARGE CITY!”

Mustang raised an eyebrow and let out a somewhat bemused chuckle. This was Papyrus? This was _Sans’_ brother? Sans who always slept and was the most soft-spoken person under Mustang’s command? He glanced at Sans, whose grin had softened somewhat, the corners not stretched quite so wide and head dipping just a little. He looked fond.

…Yeah, okay, Sans’ stories made more sense now.

“A pleasure to meet you, Papyrus,” Mustang said politely, shaking Papyrus’ hand and deliberately not focusing on the odd texture or the slight pinch of the skeleton’s joints at his skin. “Sans only tells slightly fewer stories about you than he does bone puns.”

“NYEH HEH HEH!” Papyrus managed to look both pleased and annoyed. “AS IS ONLY RIGHT!” The annoyance dropped away and his skeleton grin widened again. “SANS HAS SPOKEN OF YOU AS WELL, COLONEL HUMAN! HE USED TO GRUMBLE QUITE A BIT, BUT-” His voice dropped comically, his sunken eyes glittering as he stage-whispered. “I DO BELIEVE HE HAS COME TO RESPECT YOU.”

Mustang gave Sans a long, appraising glance, and Sans grinned wider, unfathomable and meaningless. A short nod of acknowledgement, and Mustang returned his attention to Papyrus just as the younger skeleton continued speaking.

“NOW! WOULD YOU LIKE SOME MASTERFULLY CRAFTED SPAGHETTI?”

“Papyrus, dear, there is no need. Dinner is almost ready.”

From the other room, where Papyrus had previously emerged from, another monster appeared. Not a skeleton – no, this one was large and covered in short, clean white fur, with dark, kind eyes and a hint of a shaped muzzle. Large ears flopped down on either side of their head, and small horns sat on top, lightly curved.

Less unnerving than the skeletons, Mustang decided as the monster’s eyes landed on him, but not to be underestimated – if body language carried through at all, and long experience with Sans suggested it did, there was something about how this monster held themselves…

It – they – smiled warmly, inclining their head in respect. After a moment of study, Mustang decided there was something tight about the draw of their muzzle. They were not pleased.

“Good evening, Colonel Mustang,” the monster greeted, soft and deep. “I am Toriel, queen of the monsters. Welcome.”

A queen – yes, she looked the part, holding herself tall and proud and regal. Mustang bowed respectfully, holding it long enough to murmur, “Thank you, your majesty,” before straightening into something like a parade rest.

The muscles of her muzzle loosened. Mustang could not read the expression of her foreign face. He wanted to die.

“Please sit, Colonel,” Toriel invited courteously, gesturing to the table. “As I said, dinner will be finished shortly. Thank you for joining us. I know it has been a difficult few days for you.”

“Thank you for your hospitality,” Mustang returned, taking the offered seat. Toriel settled across from him, graceful and grand, eyes focused on him while her hands folded in front of her. His eyes lingered briefly on her hands – blunt, broad nails, not claws.

Mustang lifted his gaze back to hers and flashed her a patient, professional smile, setting his hands on the table in an echo of her posture. Papyrus and Sans took seats as well, Sans slouching lazily in place and Papyrus looking almost childishly eager, trembling with clear excitement.

Mustang decided to begin business.

“I’m afraid that, as you already know, Amestris is not currently possessed of the sort of political climate the introduction of monsters would require,” he said, weighing his words carefully and watching Toriel’s large, unreadable eyes. “There is, I confess, very little I myself can do about that at this time.”

Toriel tilted her head slightly, gaze unwavering. Her hands lifted, fingers intertwining in a mimicry of one of Mustang’s more secretive postures. “Of course, you are intended to change that, are you not, Colonel?” Toriel said mildly. It reminded Mustang abruptly of the Fuhrer’s own shrewd gaze, and Mustang’s heart sped up just slightly.

“As best I can,” he deflected, glancing over at Sans. He was no help, head tilted back to examine the ceiling, grinning placidly. Of course; should Mustang take Toriel at her word, this was his queen. “My influence is limited at my current rank, but I’m sure I could make some progress, should I find the right allies.” With problems beginning to bubble up from within, and the promise of many more to come, he was already calculating which allies he could trust. It appeared Armstrong counted among those.

“It would be easier for you if you climbed the ranks of your military,” Toriel noted, her tone almost gentle. On one side of the table, Papyrus’ excitement had eased and he started to shift, but on the other, Sans dipped his head and winked at his brother, and Papyrus fell still, frowning faintly.

“That is my plan, yes,” Mustang agreed, doing his best to appear unrattled. With Armstrong on their side, and Sans’ own experience, he’d expected them to have good intel, but this was beyond the pale. “I am, after all, a career soldier.”

Toriel smiled. Mustang got a very, very bad feeling.

“You need not be concerned, Colonel,” Toriel reassured him quietly, dropping her hands to lean lightly against the table, her large eyes staying focused and intent. “We are well aware of your ambitions.” She tipped her head and smiled wider, lips parting slightly to expose blunt, herbivorous teeth. “That is the reason we’ve spared our judge these last four years, after all.”

Mustang was unable to keep himself from stiffening, his teeth set on edge, but he kept his tone even and moderated. This was becoming more hazardous than he had expected. “Your judge, your highness?” _And how did you know?_

“me,” Sans clarified with that same grin, which Mustang was quite certain he’d be seeing past that medical mask forever now. “that was my main job in the underground, ya see, royal judge. just meant I had to test guilt, pass sentences, that sort of thing. didn’t come up much, really.” Wink. Mustang would never unsee that wink. “to pa- _tell-_ ya the truth, it was kinda boring.”

“SANS!” Papyrus complained, and then turned to Mustang with an achingly sincere smile. “BECAUSE THERE IS SO LITTLE FOR THE ROYAL JUDGE TO DO, IT IS THE PERFECT JOB FOR MY LAZY BROTHER! NYEH HEH HEH!” His expression softened visibly, his eye sockets shifting in place of facial muscles and his smile changing to suit. “HE IS VERY GOOD AT IT, HOWEVER. HE HAS CAUSED MANY STRAYING MONSTERS TO RETHINK THEIR PATHS.”

“aw, paps. you’re makin’ me blush.”

Mustang nodded, lacing his fingers together while he considered that, setting his concerns about their knowledge of his bid for the Fuhrership aside for later inquiry. Given their loyalty was already clearly to another monarch, they would hardly be concerned about the current Fuhrer’s position. Goodness knew Sans disliked him enough.

A judge, hm? Mustang supposed he could see that in the man he’d known; perhaps on some level Mustang had guessed already, sending him on cases that needed a more careful hand than Edward’s, where guilt was uncertain or the situation ambiguous.

All the same, when he chose tasks for Sans in the future, he was sure he’d pull that little tidbit to the front of his mind.

“Very few monsters have the disposition for a career in your military,” Toriel added, expression turning solemn as she studied him. Her hands shifted, fingers tracing across the wood grain absently. “Which is why Sans so kindly agreed to go.”

Mustang thought of Sans, leaning close to the chimera of a little girl, crooning soft, soothing words as he stroked her flank and realigned her bones.

_“i know a place she can go, colonel, don’t you worry. make sure the kid doesn’t either, k?”_

The next words were out of his mouth before he could stop them.

“Sans doesn’t have the disposition for the military either.” And then, quick and almost flustered, head jerking so his gaze fell to the table, “Your majesty.”

Toriel smiled again; as she dipped her head slightly in acknowledgement, Mustang judged the expression sad. “Perhaps not,” Toriel agreed softly.

“YOU SHOULD HAVE FAITH IN MY BROTHER’S STRENGTH,” Papyrus said firmly, and then promptly shattered any illusion of seriousness by tacking on, “FOR I, THE GREAT PAPYRUS, SHALL ALWAYS BE HERE TO SUPPORT HIM!”

“i’m mandi- _blessed_ to have you, bro.”

“SANS!”

Mustang cleared his throat, trying not to either grimace or smile too openly. Despite his deathly form, Papyrus’ clear liveliness was making his face less upsetting by the moment. “With that illusion done away with, your highness, is there an issue you would like to bring to my attention? As I said, I have inadequate real power now, but I will do my best.” Currying the monsters’ favor could only be beneficial later, and if he could more confidently secure their support…

“There is, in fact,” Toriel said, hands going still and back straightening. A firm line came to her muzzle, and her gaze turned hard- a faint tension in her brow. “I’m afraid that if you cannot secure the rights of the Ishvalan people, we monsters will simply have to seek shelter elsewhere.”

Sans’ had demonstrated substantial power against the creature that had attacked Hughes. Mustang understood what Toriel had not said. Some of the blood drained from Mustang’s face, but he stayed steady.

“That is a priority of mine as well,” he affirmed quietly, holding eye contact by sheer force of will. “I promise you that I will do everything in my power to help them in any way I can.” A moment’s heavy pause, and he let his gaze shift to Papyrus, who had deflated noticeably in something like sadness, he continued, “May I ask why this is a matter of such significance to you?” He switched his attention to the other side. Sans was still grinning, but his head was bent and Mustang could not see the lights of his eyes.

Toriel smiled again, brittle and with a touch of teeth. Something in the pull of her furred brow and the crinkle of her nose made her gaze icy. Understandable, when speaking to Mustang of anything Ishval-related, and no more than he deserved. “Mt. Ebott, the mountain my people were imprisoned in, is near an Ishvalan town, Colonel Mustang. And then have been nothing but kind to us since the Barrier fell eight years ago.” Another moment’s pause as Mustang fought to keep his eyes from turning away, and Toriel added, “I hope that you are able to make reparations, child. Now, on the matter of monsters…”

Mustang swallowed as Toriel pointedly moved on, and kept up, bouncing ideas about presentation and integration and possible allies back and forth, with occasional contributions from both Papyrus and Sans.

Eight years ago, that would be- five years into the war, predating the extermination order. It certainly explained Toriel’s initial reception, and Sans’ apparent initial reluctance to serve under him.

“We already have a human representative,” Toriel assured him as the topic arose, a warm tone suffusing into her voice. “In fact, they live here- they would be down here with us if they weren’t… otherwise occupied  at the moment. Here, I- Oh!”

Mustang jumped at a loud ring. A moment later, he identified it as an oven timer and relaxed, huffing out a long breath. Toriel smiled brightly, animosity seemingly gone for the moment.

“What perfect timing! Papyrus, dear, could you-?”

“OF COURSE, YOUR MAJESTY!” Papyrus leapt to his feet and bounded over to the stairwell while Toriel disappeared briefly into the kitchen. “FRISK! IT IS TIME TO SET THE TABLE AND GREET OUR GUEST!”

“Coming,” a soft voice called from upstairs. Mustang glanced up, curious despite himself – Frisk, he recognized that name, Sans had spoken about the young gender-neutral child – and a few moments later, a figure appeared at the top.

The newcomer tipped their head toward Mustang, hair brushing across their shoulders, and Mustang choked, one fist shooting up to his mouth to try and conceal his reaction.

Those eyes, large and bright and calm, were red. Blood red.

For a moment, Mustang tasted ash on his tongue, and then bile.

The young Ishvalan – seventeen or eighteen, by Mustang’s estimate – held Mustang’s gaze for the space of three long breaths, and then their gaze dropped to Mustang’s hands and lingered there, unreadable.

Mustang followed their line of sight to his hands, sheathed in his characteristic alchemy gloves. Without a moment’s hesitation, he stripped them off and pushed them into his pocket without looking away from the table. He felt naked without them.

“Your eyes- they must be the most stunning this side of the desert.”

Mustang’s mouth fell open, and he thought he heard Sans chuckle as his head jerked back up, eyes widening. The Ishvalan was smiling gently, red eyes on his again, with a teasing tilt to their head. Their white hair brushed across their cheek, neat and even and _stark._

Mustang blinked at them, stomach roiling and mouth dry, and then registered that they seemed to be waiting for a response. He swallowed, and then- smiled, tipping his head languidly in return as his hands clasped together in front of him.

“I’m sorry, I was enchanted by the sound of your voice. Angels must envy it.”

Frisk’s smile turned warmer, eyes glittering. “Not as much as they value your cleverness,” they countered softly.

“Cleverness isn’t half the virtue kindness is,” Mustang deflected, relaxing into the familiar rhythm of flirtation.

“You two can finish flirting once you’ve set the table,” Toriel interrupted, tone stern despite the twist of a smile on her muzzle. Mustang didn’t know when she had returned; he had not been watching.

“Yes, Mom,” Frisk agreed easily, gaze dropping back to the ground as they traveled the rest of the way down the steps. Mustang rose hastily to his feet and followed them into the kitchen, escaping the watchful gazes of Toriel and Sans.

In the kitchen, Frisk opened one of the cabinets and, ignoring the quiche cooling on the table and the pan of vegetables on the stove, pulled down a stack of plates, and turned to Mustang, holding them out.

The banter had loosened the knot in Mustang’s stomach, he realized with an almost guilty jolt, and took them silently. Frisk smiled, eyes still lowered, and turned away to open a drawer and pull out silverware.

“Font- that is, Sans, talks about you often,” Mustang said abruptly, wanting to fill the silence. “As much as he talks about his brother, I’d say.”

Frisk laughed softly. “We’re family,” they explained with obvious affection, starting back toward the living room. “We have been for years now.”

“How did that happen?” Mustang questioned, laying the plates out on the table. Toriel gestured, and Papyrus followed her into the kitchen.

Frisk paused as they were setting out the silverware, and then smiled at the table.

“I was the last human to fall into the Underground,” they explained, voice low and careful. “And because of… the way things happened, I was able to help let the monsters go free.” They glanced at him, smiling wryly. “Of course, it’s not safe on the surface, so many of them still live down there. Some of my people, too, now.”

“Of course,” Mustang echoed hoarsely, unable to look away. Frisk gave him another faint smile that Mustang hesitated to interpret as reassuring.

“THE GLORIOUS DINNER PREPARED BY HER MAJESTY IS READY FOR CONSUMPTION!” Papyrus declared, entering the room bearing the large, now cut quiche. Toriel followed a moment later with a bowl of spiced vegetables tucked into her elbow and a basket of rolls in the opposite hand.

“It looks wonderful, your highness,” Mustang complimented, as Frisk leaned forward to help Toriel and Papyrus arrange the food on the table. As Mustang watched, a blue glow picked up a few of the glasses and moved them, making room for the bread bowl. When Mustang glanced at Sans, he winked, hands still in his pockets.

For the next few minutes, they all settled down and passed food around, beginning to dig in. They offered their obligatory compliments and gratitude to Toriel, and Mustang tried not to stare at the two skeletons eating.

Mustang allowed the mood to settle before opening business talk once again. “How are the monsters doing now?” he asked. He took a moment to settle on a form of address, and then continued, “The ambassador mentioned that many still live belowground.”

Toriel nodded, solemnity settling over her expression.

“The Ishvalans have been a great help,” Toriel said, without the pointed sharpness that had been present earlier. “Those monsters which can more easily hide live alongside them in many city slums, and a few more reside in the desert. It’s enough to relieve the pressure of overpopulation which shadowed us while we were still trapped.” Toriel reached over to place a large hand on Frisk’s head, earning a small smile from where they had started to curl in on themselves at Toriel’s words. “We must count our blessings.”

Mustang nodded thoughtfully, placing another forkful of quiche in his mouth to buy himself time to think. Toriel smiled at him, reclaimed her hand, and continued, “In return, monsters provide gifts of monster food, which has healing properties, and what skilled labor we can provide, along with sanctuary for many of the more vulnerable.”

“The candies you give Fullmetal,” Mustang realized with surprise, giving Sans a sharp glance. Sans gave him a lazy smile in return.

“kid looks like he needs ‘em,” he said dismissively, slouching further in his seat. Mustang gave him a long, unreadable look, thinking of the way Edward always perked up after munching on one of the candies Sans always tossed to him, and then Papyrus caught his attention.

“WE MONSTERS ARE ALWAYS HAPPY TO HELP OUR HUMAN FRIENDS,” he pronounced warmly. “EVEN IF THEY REQUIRE NOTHING MORE THAN A GIFT OF NICE CREAM! NYEH HEH HEH!”

“Nice cream?” Mustang asked, distracted, pausing to furrow his eyebrows.

“Ice cream,” Frisk explained, soft and fond, “but instead of a joke, the wrapper says something nice.”

Mustang let out a slightly disbelieving snort, covering his mouth a moment later in embarrassment. Toriel gave him a patient smile.

“You’ll find monsters very different from humanity, Colonel.”

Properly chastened, Mustang removed his hand from his mouth and returned to his food, avoiding Toriel’s gaze. “Of course. I understand.” He glanced back to her. “Would this be related to the reason you chose Major Font?”

Toriel nodded, and then conceded, “Undyne, the head of the Royal Guard, may have been equally suited in terms of pure personality, having…” She sighed, looking, for a moment, very sad. “Made difficult and damning choices in the past. However, she doesn’t have the patience for alchemy, and also, well…” She leveled a long, even look at Mustang, the tightness back in her brow, and for once, he interpreted it easily and felt very tired.

“She wouldn’t have forgiven me,” he concluded.

“UNDYNE CAN BE VERY FORGIVING,” Papyrus insisted loudly, before allowing his face to fall into a visibly apologetic expression. “HOWEVER, SHE IS VERY IMPULSIVE, SO IT IS PROBABLY A GOOD IDEA TO STAY AWAY FROM HER FOR NOW. BUT SHE WILL- WELL, SHE WILL TOLERATE YOU IF FRISK LIKES YOU!”

Mustang inclined his head in acceptance and wondered what constituted a difficult, damning choice for beings of the nature he had come to expect from monsters.

“Why do you?” he asked, and at Toriel’s frown, elaborated, “Why do you tolerate me? Why, of all places, did you send Font to _me?”_

Toriel sighed again, muzzle crinkling in a likely indication of stress.

“No one is irredeemable,” she said at last, sounding exhausted but entirely sincere. “And you have made the effort to change, Colonel, like Major Armstrong did.” She smiled. “Besides, Frisk has forgiven you. How could we do less?”

Mustang couldn’t keep himself from looking at Frisk, who gave him a tolerant, if strained smile. He opened his mouth, thinking to say something, _anything,_ but Sans interrupted.

“weren’t you interested in monster magic, colonel?”

Mustang asked about monster magic.

Conversation drifted away from heavier topics then, easing into what was largely a Monsterkind 101 session for Mustang, ranging from history to culture to the nature of the SOUL and the practicalities of living underground. The more Mustang knew, he explained, the more fluidly he could interact with them, and the better he could eventually help.

(Besides, he was an alchemist. He was thirsty for knowledge.)

Eventually, of course, it was time to go, and Papyrus (enthusiastically) and Frisk (sedately) waved as Sans led Mustang to the door.

Night had long since fallen, so Sans didn’t bother with his disguise before stepping out, pausing with Mustang just outside the front door.

“not bad, colonel,” Sans conceded with a toothy grin.

Mustang considered him for a moment, and then decided he wasn’t any harder to read like this than with most of his face covered. Not really.

“Judge, huh?” he said after a long pause. Sans lifted his head, grin unchanging.

“only on my days off,” he winked.

“Would you be willing to make an exception for your commanding officer?”

The lights of Sans’ eyes stayed on, and the grin didn’t fall. All the same, the air around them seemed to shift and darken.

“monsters, we like to use numbers to quantify aspects of the SOUL,” Sans explained without preamble, sticking his hands in his pockets and rocking back on his heels. Mustang didn’t take his eyes off Sans’, listening carefully. “there are two i look at when i pass judgement – LV and EXP. that’s level of violence and execution points, respectively.

“i’ll be blunt, colonel. you’ve got a lot of EXP, and your LV, your willingness to kill, is, frankly, pretty gross. you wandered around, looking for people – killing them just ‘cause you were told to. i don’t need to tell you how wrong that is, colonel. thing is, though, you could be a lot worse. you kind of suck at being evil, frankly.” Tipped his head, grinned. “you can do better, right?”

At some point during Sans’ judgement, Mustang had gone ashen. When he finished that last sentence, though, Mustang started and nodded once, jerkily, feeling like some kind of spell had been broken.

“oh, and-” The lights of Sans’ eyes winked out. “k e e p  y o u r  d i r t y  h a n d s  o f f  f r i s k .”

Mustang managed a strained smirk – quite an accomplishment after the turmoil of the night.

“Ordering around your superior now, Font?” he teased. “I promise, not one finger.” Of flame or flesh.

Sans’ eyes relit and he grinned wider, now once again nothing more than Mustang’s lazy subordinate. “glad we’re on the same page.”

Mustang snorted, surprising himself by relaxed. “I’ll see you in the office tomorrow, Major. We’ve got plenty of work to do.”

“to- _marrow?”_ Sans teased. “sure thing, colonel.” He started to turn away, paused, and then looked back at Mustang. “and- just so you know, colonel, i’m planning on supporting you all the way to the top, and the other monsters with me. don’t fuck it up.”

With Mustang blinking after him in something like shock, Sans turned away, seeming almost uncomfortable, pulled the door open, and paused. Shot a grin over his shoulder. And right before he pulled it closed behind him, tossed out,

“And next time, don’t ask me a question when you already know the answer.”


End file.
